To Live Again
by XxPinsandNeedlesxX
Summary: Beatrice Prior was transferred to a facility in Mason City, Iowa to be treated for the gunshot wounds in her body. Tobias Eaton follows, wanting to be there and know what her condition was. After a few months, things go downhill. With a diagnosis from Cara and with what feels like the entire nation thinking he's crazy, Tobias is wondering: Can he live again? *Alternate ending*


**Disclaimer: I do not own "Divergent".**

**If you're sensitive to Social Anxiety, stop reading here.  
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><p><span>Tobias<span>

"Why?"

The question was a reasonable one, one I have often asked myself. Memories of before would flash quickly, all of my senses on high alert as I remembered the way she felt, the way she smelt. Everything. A list of different scenarios would play through my head until I crossed it off the list, ruling against it the way a judge would rule against the defense.

With each time I asked the one worded question, the person in the room would sigh and let their shoulders slump. In this case, it's Shauna who places her hand on my shoulder and steers me away from the observatory window. Her voice is filled with dread, the exasperated answer makes me want to shake her hand off and scoot my chair closer towards the wide window pane. "Because she's special."

"But she's human,"

Shauna sighs, wheeling towards the back of the room. A part of me wonders if it weren't for the regulations David had set up if Shauna would have left this room and seek the comfort of someone whose spirits are higher or whose personal hygiene is more in order than my own. "But they need her." Shauna's answer is the same as everyone else's, making me question if she still holds a grudge against Tris for being Divergent. Or, as we now know, Genetically Pure.

"But she's not an animal,"

"She isn't treated like one."

"She's treated like a lab rat, Shauna." On cue, a nurse walks in, balancing a tray in her hands as she makes polite conversation with Tris.

I watch as she cleans the inside of her elbow, wrapping a blue band around her bicep and placing a ball in her hand. The needle is injected, a long slender tube slowly filling with the dark red substance that keeps us alive even when we so desperately don't want to be. We can't hear anything that goes on the other side of the glass pane, just like they can't see or hear us. By the way their lips are moving, I can make up small words like "dinner" and "soon" and I instinctively look up at the clock and see that the cafeteria is in fact, serving dinner soon.

Shauna doesn't say anything for the remainder of our time, leaving a tense silence lingering in air. For a while, I consider asking her another question but quickly decide against; with one rocky relationship with her boyfriend, and a strained one with Amar, the last relationship I want to jeopardize is the friendship I have with Shauna. I just continue to mule over my questions though, twiddling my thumbs while I make my list, trying to think of an answer to all of my questions. Each time I come with an answer, her voice would fill my head and then the memory that goes a long with it will contradict the idea and eventually, I run out of scenarios and I no longer have a list.

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><p>"Pass me the salt."<p>

The conversation eventually turned down this road, leaving an awkward silence in the air as our utensils clanked against the plate. Shauna was rolled up against Zeke, waiting for me to slide the salt over from where it sat on my side of the round table. I complied, lifting my eyes slightly to grab the salt and slide it across the table before I trained my eyes on my dinner; mashed potatoes and meatloaf. It was an odd combination, one that satisfied my hunger and one that tasted odd against my tongue.

A small chatter was heard throughout the cafeteria. I was convinced that if I concentrate hard enough, I could lose myself in the small volume of noise. It's different from the rowdiness I had managed to grow accustomed too, making it slightly harder for me to lose myself, and if I were, I'm sure that someone would notice and try to bring me back to reality.

Because that's what they do.

They think I'm crazy, the term that was never used to describe me is now branded on my forehead, standing out against my skin. All of the exasperated sighs and scientific explanations as to why she's here has convinced them and all of the doctors I have seen that I'm crazy. They say that my distraught has led to my anti-socialness, making my odd behavior automatically seem crazy.

But I'm not crazy.

The term is so completely out of context. I am not crazy. I'm not out for bloodshed or revenge, I'm keeping to myself to understand everything that I did – that _we _did to get here. The term gets under my skin, making me want to jump in a large pool of water and rid myself of any reminder of the word. It makes me angry because I was like this in Dauntless and the term has never once left the mouth of someone.

It feels that now the whole city of Chicago knows what went on behind closed doors and my act of cowardice, they automatically see me as a different person. Anything I do, anything I say is automatically blamed on the diagnosis Cara had given me the day before they transferred her here. Social anxiety. Apparently, crazy people have it because majority of the people who have this "disorder" have isolated themselves away from society, leaving people to assume they have gone crazy.

Just like they think I'm crazy.

"What are you going to do tomorrow?"

I look up, watching as Zeke attempts to make a conversation with me. Shauna perks up, spooning a forkful of mashed potatoes in her mouth as she eagerly waits for my answer. I'm tempted to tell him that I'll be in the same place as always, in the observatory room watching as they treat her wounds. But the pleading look in his eyes makes me feel slightly guilty for my bluntness and I decide the best thing to do is to lie. "I might go outside, take a walk and clear my head."

He smiles, a proud smile. It's a smile a father would wear when their son or daughter brings home perfect marks on their report cards, a smile two parents would wear the day of their child's wedding. It makes me feel guilty for lying to him and I consider adding the truth to the lie but Zeke decides to input his opinion. "That's a good idea. The air would help you circulate your thoughts better and then you'll feel better."

The word "crazy" comes to mind at his statement and I form a tightlipped smile, nodding my head before stabbing my fork into the sliver of meatloaf. He smiles, looking at Shauna with a knowing smile and she gives him a small one herself before he begins ranting. Shauna doesn't believe me though; her eyes are stern, and I suddenly wonder if this is how I looked to them before they knew about the markings on my back. The disappointment in her face is evident, the way she looks at me makes me disgusted as the word "crazy" forms in her eyes. She turns away and pays attention to Zeke and I pay attention to my food.

I'm not crazy.


End file.
